26 between the closed door of the par- lor, where no one could sit, and the closed door of the kitchen, where my mother sat with a neighbor . "You stay here," my mother would say, and step toward the kitchen door, and close it softly behind her. Secrecy was bound up in her nature. She could not go from one room to another without the intense purpose that must cover itself with stealth. She closed the door as though she had said goodbye to me and to truth and to the lamp she had cleaned that morning and to the table soon to be laid for supper, as though she faced some romantic subterfuge, some pleasant deceit. · I T was bitter weather, too cold for storms, too rigid and silent for the wind, when old Leonard first came to the kitchen door. Why he came I do not know. I heard his voice and my moth- er's voice answering, and I sat listening, not able to make out the words, and was terribly afraid. I did not dare to move from my chair; I remembered his strong old body, his fierce old face with a nose like a bird's beak, his ragged beard, the sound of his stick beating against wood, the curses coming out of his mouth. [ could not call my mother or go near the kitchen door. ..A.fter he had gone, my mother said that perhaps he had . " H ' ld come In to get warm. e s an 0 man," she said, but these words ex- plained nothing to me. "He likes to sit where it is warm and talk to some- one. You mustn't be afraid of him. He can't do anything to hurt you." Every time he came, my terror hurt me to such a degree that I thought I could not bear it. I could .10t under- stand why he should want to come, or why my mother should want to open the door to him. I should havE' slammed the door in his face, put out all the lights when I heard his footsteps on the path, drawn down the blinds, pretending that the house was empty. I could not see how my mother could bear to sit in the same room with such ugliness, such age. One evening my mother opened the kitchen door, and I sa w him sitting in the rocking chair be- side the window. He was peeling an apple; the peel hung down in one piece from the fruit, in a long curl; he turned the knife round and round. His hat was on his head, and he said nothing. My mother had made him a cup of tea and put a plate of bread and butter be- side it. _ ø '\O Ð' . . :; - He lifted his head and saw me and grinned down into his beard. If he had put out his hand to touch me, I could not have been more frightened; with half a room between us, I stood transfixed by that smile. "It's Mr. Leonard," my mother said, and lifted the stove lid, shifting the kettle to one side. "It's a cold night, and I'm giv- ing him a nice hot cup of tea to warn1 } . " 11m up. The peel fell to the floor and old Leonard closed his knife with his thumb. Then I heard him speak the first words that were not curses. "We must be wise," he said to my mother. "We must be as wise as the serpent and as gentle as the dove. As the serpent, as the dove," he said, and picked up the cup of tea from its saucer. The peeled apple lay on the table beside him. These words now lie in my memory as inexplicable as the doll and the sword. I did not know what they meant then, and I do not know what they mean now. It is such memories, compounded of bewilder- ment and ignorance and fear, that we must always keep in our hearts. \\1 e can never forget them because we can- not understand them, and because they are of no use. -LOUISE BOGAN . . OF ALL THINGS I T is announced that the last rites for Noble Experiment win be observed at two 0' clock on the afternoon of I)ecember 5th at Salt Lake City. Non- friends of the departed will hold memo- rial services of an appropriate nature throughout the countr) . . F'or the victory of repeal, the laurel- weavers and bay-twiners are rightly decorating such pioneer wets as Al Smith, \Vadsworth, Morrow, Stayton, and Mrs. Sabin. ,-,r e clap a wreath upon the silver dome of cartoonist Rollin Kirhy, who gave the world Pro- hibition, the immortal killjoy. . I t is our theory that Carolinians Inissed the point of that historic jest about the Governors of N. C. and S. C. And nothing, as H. T. Webster says, can be done about it. . Sixty people were killed in Havana riots in one day, and it is increasingly clear that the mercurial Latins are in- capable of self-government. Kentucky NOVEMDER 18, 1 c:J .3 can hold an election without that many casualties in an entire state. . Tammany blames McKee for its defeat and F usionists claim that Joe pr;vented their complete victory. No- body loves a middleman. . Right or wrong, there is a wide- spread belief in the Inetropolitan district that Jim Farley misread the postal cards. . While Ne\v York was being de- Curryed, the Philadelphia Varists took it on the chin and the Mellonites bit the coal dust in Pittsburgh. Outings will now be enjoyed by the ins and innings by the outs. . Newspapermen in Berlin now be- lieve that the Communists may be ac- quitted of burning the Reichstag. The Reds will then be executed on the graver charge of not favoring brown shirtings for gents' wear. . George Crawford, the Negro who was extracted from Massachusetts with sam e diffi cuI ty, is to be trie d by an all- white jury. The defence suspects, not without reason, that Virginia justice is color-blind. . The new play crop is practically bumper, and a lot of strange faces are seen in the theatre district. On these crisp autumn nights, it is pleasant to see ruhher do]1ars houncing into hox offices. -HOWARD BRUBAKER . . JUNGLE.- FLOWER. (A TIMELY POLITICAL POEM, FULL OF GUARDED REFERENCES TO F'IG- tIRES IN MUNICIPAL GOVERNMENT) Tiger, tiger, turning white In the fusion of the night! Down the jungle's beaten trail Vanishes the curly tail, Black and yellow. Jungle now has gone to seed, Grown to burdock and to weed ...A.re the croker and the tweed; Gone the sound of favor's curry, Gone the murphy and the worry; In the tiger's dung-filled lair, In the favor-heavy air Grows a little flower there: Fiorello. -E. B. W.